


Spun Like Gold for a Name

by AnachronisticVerbage



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: BAMF everyone, Fix-It of Sorts, Lunchtime resistance, Magic Revealed, Maybe - Freeform, Mild Language, Operation self respect over loyalty, People are disturbing when they hate things, Rebellion, Revolution, The title is the only Rumplestilskin motif, overthrowing tyrannical regimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13408656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnachronisticVerbage/pseuds/AnachronisticVerbage
Summary: Merlin & steadily growing co subvert tyrannical regimes by smuggling magic users out of Camelot.Updates will be sporadic-but-frequent, and chapters quite short.





	1. Before the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> All credit for characters and such goes to the Merlin tv series, though many ideas come from some of the old English stories (Gawain and the green knight, the complete works of that one semi religious guy, etc), and a plethora of fictional stories that came out before 2009, when my Merlin/Arthurian legends phase was. None of the France and England background is included.

When Merlin is seven years old he spends three days hiding in the old miller’s cellar, because the knights of Camelot are conducting a raid. It is in the years before Camelot ceded the land to Cenred’s kingdom, and witchcraft is punishable by death. The whole town decided to hide him; nobody says it straight out, but the people of Ealdor are neither stupid nor blind. Merlin has had sparks trailing his idle movements for years. He sneezes bursts of light, and the marigolds in front of Hunith’s home bloom all winter.  
The Purge is a decade past its height, but magic is not so gone that they can explain any of this away. They may not know what to do with the boy, but they can’t sentence him to death.

So, Merlin sits in the dark, shaking, and pretends it took his eyes time to adjust. Nobody comes down. For all the soldiers know, there is no trap door, just a threadbare rug and scattered hay. This boy breathes magic into the world in a way that is very obviously changing things—but accidents happen sometimes. If the soldiers don’t even think to kick the incongruously placed rug away, well, everyone is too relieved to ask why.

The townspeople, old miller included, know exactly what it means when Sir Yaggarth asks about “strange happenings.”

When he asks, Susannah Brimdaughter thinks of flowers made of sparks and says, “Well, it has been an unusually rainy autumn.”

Karl Smithson leans against an oak and shakes his head. “We’re a simple folk. Ain’t any a strange thing here.” The towering tree was a sapling last year, and should have been for years to come, but the soldiers are not botanists. (There are five books in Ealdor, two of them on useful plants. Karl knows quite well how fast trees ought to grow).

Of the thirty six people in Ealdor, twenty three lie directly to a knight of the realm. Twelve say nothing. One is hiding in a cellar. These liars, steady and sure, teach Merlin more about courage than a legion of knights.

The men do not eat the villager’s meager store of grain, but they stay in their houses, try to sow fear in their hearts.  
There are speeches on the evils of witchcraft. They seem to go on for hours.  
“The old religion is to blame for infertility, drought, blight. If a calf is born with two heads you must cut them both off and burn the meat. Witches are betrayed by their appetite for secrets. If you see a child making light they are doing the devil’s work. The only way to right the balance is death.” The vitriol leaves Will shaking in fear. Hunith goes quiet, and carefully doesn’t look at the ground. Merlin, just below them and so close he can hear the knight’s labored breaths, finally stills. He wonders if he is a monster.

That summer, the harvest is the best it has ever been. Susannah’s hearth never grows cold, and the oak’s circumference doubles.

Five years later, old man Simmons pulls Hunith aside. “We’ll protect him, but he doesn’t belong here. You need to send him somewhere he can use his gifts.”


	2. Some Nasty Boots to Fill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An almost legal infiltration. Or: high treason incarnate walks up to camelot’s gates. It’s weirdly similar to airport immigration, only sans the questions about imported diseases.

The journey takes five days. It’s fine, and it’s not like Merlin got cold or anything, what with, you know, magic, but his shoes aren’t exactly fit for travel and he can’t seem to magic himself lighter. He could probably have coaxed some air between his feet and the ground, but it’s a little late now. He’ll reach Camelot by midday, even with the blasted foot pain.

 

————

 

The gates to Camelot are bigger than anything he’s seen in Ealdor—he didn’t actually know people could build things this tall—and the sight leaves him gaping. Merlin would be embarrassed, except that he’s pretty sure he is immune to shame by now, and the facsimile of stupidity probably saved his life. The gates are manned by oddly expressionless guards in red cloaks, and when one of them starts toward him he flinches, violently.

 

Men in red cloaks haunt his nightmares.

 

It’s okay, though, because Merlin was gaping at the gates like a simpleton, not some sort of freak of nature, and guard gives a disarming grin.

 

“Business in Camelot?”

 

“I’m—uh—Gaius! The court physician! I’m his assistant, apprentice, really, or I will be. I have a letter? Just let me—”

 

He begins rummaging through his pockets to hide his shaking hands. He’s stumbling on his words, and he _knows_ that looks suspicious, just  _knows_ he’s going to be caught, but he can’t help it, and he wishes this could just be over and that he weren’t literally committing a crime at this very moment. Note finally in hand, he looks up.

 

The guard is still smiling.

 

He looks like a real person when he does that, and it helps, because Merlin’s never been close enough to make out the faces in the red cloaks, at least not in real life. (Sometimes in his dreams they’re carrying torches, and they light up the faces of his friends and family. Sometimes he has dreams that an empty red cloak ties itself about his shoulders and he sets the world aflame).

 

Taking a deep breath, he hands the guard the letter. He’s shaking again, even though he’s well aware that there’s nothing incriminating in it. His mother can’t even _say_ the word magic; she’s not going to _write it down_.

There’s no need for concern, anyways; Camelot’s finest clearly doesn’t require literacy. Merlin holds back a smile as the man pretends to read a very obviously upside down letter. The laugh bubbles out when the guard hands it solemnly back, before Merlin remembers how _dangerous_ this is—but again, he does not burn. The guard’s eyes crinkle.

 

“‘Can’t read worth a pickled frog’s egg, but it’s policy to take a look. Go on through, then. The palace is the massive edifice to your left; you’d have to blind to miss it, and even then I’m not sure you would.”

 

The man peers at Merlin as if to assure himself that he is not, in fact, blind.

 

Merlin blinks at him. He’s rather annoyed at his nightmares for being so unrealistic. The man is _friendly_. It’s disconcerting; he was half convinced Camelot’s guards were all rabid killers.

 

 “Will you be here long?”

 

He could leave. It’s not like his mother would know: he could find the druids, somehow, and live with them. They like magic. They might like him. He wouldn’t have to catch glimpses of his nightmares from the corners of his eyes.

He looks up at the turrets, at the odd guard who smiled at him, at the cloak from his nightmares. He thinks of years of not belonging, really, in a place where everyone wanted him safe. Well, safety’s right out, that’s for sure. His fist clench, to hide their shaking, and he very carefully brings his magic closer.

 

“I’d like to stay.”

 

At least he’ll be able to take his damn shoes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I figured out how to put multiple chapters in; apparently it’s really easy and I’m just appallingly unobservant. So the deal is that long chapters are not my forté, so this will likely read like a series of oneshot until I, you know, learn how to write, but shorter chapters mean more frequent updates!  
> If anyone wants to see something in the story, please do let me know in the comments. The same goes for any errors or plot holes and such.
> 
> I want to start something basic and Harry Potter ish so hey watch out for that.


	3. Bends at the Elbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small town boy meets big city life.  
> Merlin’s wishes almost always come true, but being a living, breathing, monkey’s paw is even less fun than it sounds like.  
> We get a look at injustice, and it wears an old man’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, warning for a reference to someone getting decapitated and a serious miscarriage of justice.

Camelot is loud. It has only been two minutes since he waved goodbye to the friendly guard, and he’s already gotten sidetracked. It’s just—the street is _so_ bright, and the buildings are so _tall_ , and everywhere he turns there is shouting and jostling from more people than he’s seen in his life. He grins, spinning on the spot.

 

“Bread!”

 

“Herbs! Sage, clary, rue, chamomile—”

 

“Finest cloth in Camelot!”

 

“Fresh baked, hot to the touch—”

 

“Venison!”

 

“Sorry there lad—”

 

The touch brings him out of his wild glee, but doesn’t damp his enthusiasm. Screw his nightmares. Camelot is _brilliant_. As he turns, smiling, he spots the castle, and for the second time that day, his jaw drops.

 

Forget the gates—forget the guard’s description. The castle is _gargantuan_.

 

He’s never seen anything like it before. There’s no wood, just paces and paces of smooth light stone, Camelot’s bright flag, and a courtyard that could probably fit all of Ealdor.

The courtyard is full.

 

Merlin grins harder. He is almost bouncing. Back in Ealdor, Elodie always used to talk about the dancing and singing that went on in Camelot center, and there are _drums_ , and _trumpets_.

 

He pushes his way through the crowd.

 

It isn’t dancing.

 

Merlin hears his blood rushing in his ears.

 

An axe swings. 

 

————

 

Thomas James Collins. The man’s name was Thomas James Collins, and he is dead. Decapitated. Merlin should be feeling pity, or fear, or something, but he just feels kind of ill. He’s never seen anyone die before, not like that, not for—nothing. For being like him. Or—not even for being like him. For thinking of it. Conspiring to use magic. He didn’t even do anything, not like Merlin, who relies on magic for basically everything, from balance to sensing to carrying anything heavier than a book.

Merlin pulls his magic into his skin, and tries to imagine there is nothing gold within him. It doesn’t work, but his chest feels tight, and suddenly it’s easier to feel—something. Outrage, maybe. Or fear.

 

The king—Uther— is still talking. It’s probably disrespectful, but Merlin barely catches a word of every five. There is something about a dragon, and news of a feast, to celebrate vanquishing the evils of sorcery. There is a message behind the words, but Merlin doesn’t know how to read it. King Uther is a just and magnanimous king.

 

The crowd is antsy, from excitement or fear, but people are murmuring excitedly. There will surely be dancing and singing. The dastardly magician’s plot has been foiled. Perhaps all is well. Merlin hopes he looks agreeable and, barring that, he wishes desperately for a distraction. 

 

Somebody breaks into shrieking sobs.

 

“There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic!” The crowd backs away, leaving a ring of empty space about an old woman.

There is a ragged yellow shawl on her frail shoulders, and she is crying.

Merlin makes to step forward, but freezes at her next words.

 

“It is you.”

 

The man to Merlin’s left curses quietly. He looks like he wants to intervene, but the woman is moving slowly toward the king, bemoaning his ignorance, his hatred.

 

“You took my son!”

 

The choked exclamation shocks Merlin, though he doesn’t know why. Several people step forward, to stop her, maybe, or to help, but the woman persists. Crowd and king alike are mesmerized.

The spell—and Merlin has to choke back a laugh at the sheer inappropriateness of that thought—breaks when she threatens the king’s son.

There is a shout for the guards, but they are too slow. The woman disappears with a shrieked spell and a burst of wind.

Merlin blinks. He didn’t know that magic spells were actually _real_. He wonders if he could learn to do that, and if the mini hurricane is nonnegotiable. It doesn’t seem discreet.

The sheer ridiculousness of his train of thoughts hits him as the fear returns. Right. He needs to get it together. Magic will get him killed; there is absolutely no way he’s going to learn any spells. He needs to find Gaius, and never even say the word magic again.

The druids are sounding more appealing by the second, for all that he’s not entirely certain they exist, but he’s already in Camelot. He tries to recapture his previous mood, but he is terrified, and holding his magic in a death grip besides.

 

Shaken, face blank, he turns toward the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all so here we have a bit of action, kind of. More action than my usual, at least (though my usual is essays on scientific discoveries so maybe not, actually). I’ll be uploading various chapters today, though at least one will be very short, so don’t miss those! Well, no promises on more than two, but two for sure. The procrastination is strong, but I have three midterms next week, so it is going to have to come to an end. 
> 
> Did anyone go to the women’s march?
> 
> Oh and I just realized I made Merlin like 14 in this and I was going to change it but I decided it made sense because, like, Arthurian legend times, and the life expectancy is horrifyingly low, but like that’s literally the opposite of a plot point. I have him in mind as your classic uni student, since that’s my own cohort, but I also want this to be a coming of age thing so please imagine him as slightly younger than expected but not horrifyingly so. He has had regular access to like five books and forty people, so his emotional maturity would be stunted, even without the conviction that getting to know anyone would mean death. Basically, now I’m trying to write with a bit of added immaturity, hence the plethora of italics, but like don’t let my chapter noted ruin it haha. There’s also the fact that everyone treats him like a cross between a kid and a messiah in the show. Honestly who knows  
> Oh and “paces” was apparently the measurement of choice at the time. I think it’s interchangeable with meter.
> 
> The chapter title comes from mlk’s “the moral arc of the universe bends at the elbow of justice.”


	4. Obituary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all this is inspired by a story I read by Jade Lomax (more info at the end).

Thomas James Collins died at age thirty seven. He had no children, but he had an older brother, and one beloved niece. His bakery was not impounded, so Lisa Collins, twenty five and heartbroken, painted the walls yellow. It was three days before she opened up shop, but when she did it was not to look for her dead uncle’s face. She would add her thumb to the scales when people bought flour, but give out woven bracelets with every loaf of bread. In the years before the Purge Thomas had taught her to whisper charms into them, but she forgot the words.

She would sell lemon pastries to the palace and smuggle away every sorcerer to come to her door.  
In four years her bracelets would be known for saving lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey as I mentioned, this is inspired by Jade Lomax, which may be a pseudonym or may be an actual name but if you can, read the “Legends” trilogy (first book “Beanstalk”) and the alliance trilogy. They are possibly the most moving stories I’ve ever read. I also suspect that their (her?) username on here is dirgewithoutmusic becasue the writing sounds similar, but maybe not. I highly recommend reading those and all of dirgewithoutmusic’s fanfiction! (I am particularly partial to the Alanna/Tamora Pierce, Narnia, Harry Potter, and original fairytale works, but literally everything on there is fantastic).


	5. In the Most Unlikely Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero’s promise not to use magic lasts about five minutes.

Merlin’s decision to keep his magic to himself is hanging on by a thread, even before he reaches Gaius’s chambers. A very thin, very frayed thread. In the five minutes it took to get to the door he has stubbed his toe twice, banged his elbow against a wall, narrowly avoided a collision with a serving maid, and actually fallen thrice. His terror overshadows his annoyance, but only just.

 

It isn’t that he needs his magic to see, or balance, not exactly. It is more that it’s an extra _something_ around him. Colors are brighter, and life shimmers, a bit. He can feel when the world is close, sot of. It’s difficult not to rely on something so much a part of him, and the effect itself is nearly impossible to explain, if Will’s complete and utter frustration is anything to go by. Holding his magic off is a bit like walking around with his eyes closed, or with a bubble around him. Doable, but not something he is used to.

 

The point is moot, anyways, because the thread snaps not a minute after he gets to the court physician’s quarters. Or rather, a railing snaps, and Merlin saves a life.

 

It goes like this: he knocks, and wanders in. Merlin is almost ludicrously nosy, but having a secret as dangerous as his makes penalties for everything else seem rather pedestrian, and besides, privacy was never much of an issue in Ealdor, so he’s never done anything to curb his curiosity.

The room is in pleasantly eclectic disarray; wildflowers and vibrantly colored chemicals surround books and common salves. An old man is shelving tinctures on a raised shelf.

Merlin clears his throat, calling Gaius’s name. The old man flinches against the railing, and it breaks. He begins to fall.

 

Merlin _does something._

 

Merlin is never sure what he does in these moments. Does he slow time everywhere, or conditionally, or just slow the fall? Does his focus simply speed up, in the moment? Is an increase in speed actually the same thing as slowing time for him, if he slows it all over?

He hasn’t ever had an opportunity to experiment, because _hello_ , walking talking high treason here, but instinct takes over. This man needs help, and Merlin’s shaking hands don’t change that. The old man lands, relatively safely, on a bed. Merlin feels like he has forgotten how to breathe.

 

“What was that?”

 

The old man—Gaius, most likely, seems caught between fury and terror, and Merlin suddenly thinks, quite clearly, that he is going to die. The clarity brings a blessed moment of peace before panic encroaches once more.

 _Couldn’t last a single,_ bloody _day,_ he thinks, wondering if decapitation hurts.

Not one to ever go gently into the night, he tries to explain.

 

“It wasn’t me. I don’t know what it—” Merlin almost snorts at his own excuse.

 

“I know exactly what it was! If anyone had seen—”

 

Gaius is swirling wildly about the room, checking the windows and door. Merlin almost quirks an eyebrow, letting his shoulders relax; unless getting saved by magic is also illegal he may not actually die today.

 

“—I want to know where you learned it! Where did you study, boy?”

 

Merlin fixes his eyes on the ceiling. “I’ve never studied...that.” _Magic_.

 

Gaius doesn’t seem to believe him, which is _just_ _typical_. First—well, second, with Will—time telling the truth in his entire bloody life, and of course it’s to a skeptic.

 

“I was born like this.”

 

“Impossible,” Gaius scoffs, before cutting himself off. “Who are you, anyways?”

 

Merlin hands him the letter; it’s easy to find this time, thank goodness, but Gaius doesn’t read it. Merlin is starting to wonder if anybody is going to. He introduces himself.

 

“Merlin? Hunith’s son?”

 

Gaius stares, looking shocked, but he recovers quickly, and directs him to a room.

Merlin feels a shadow of his previous giddiness. A room! Of course, he doesn’t really know this man. He turns, hesitant, to find Gaius staring curiously.

 

“You won’t say anything?”

 

Gaius’s expression softens. “No. I will not. Though I suppose I should say thank you.”

 

Merlin looks at him, a bit shocked by the sincerity. He nods, turning toward the room. That’s the greatest sign of trust he can give.

 

It’s safer not to say anything. Magic is illegal, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Roald Dahl: “above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you, because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”


	6. After the Fall

The resistance is not formed in that day. Merlin is six inches shorter and half a life less brave than he will grow to be. For now, he pens a careful letter to Will, tries to coax a raven to his windowsill, smiles at the fairies among the fireflies. He does not call Thomas Collin’s death murder, even in his own head. He won’t for weeks.

He will, however, leave white poppy and purple hyacinths and garlic at the steps of Lisa Collins’ bakery. She will bring them to her face, breathe in courage and protection and loss, and set the flowers to dry. The next bouquet (monkhood and nasturtium and oleander) will come in the arms of a cloaked criminal and be pressed carefully into a vase.

The resistance is not formed in that day, but its seeds are sown.  
The bed leaves a two meter scratch on Gaius’s floors. A woodworker watches birds echo his daughter’s whistles and begins, carefully, to look for help. A woman walks into a forest and kills for a voice the king will listen to. The winds start to whisper. The stars twinkle ever so slightly closer. A dragon calls for a savior. A boy sits, shaking, on a bed, and falls quietly into the business of saving lives.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When we walk to the edge of all the light we have and take the first step into the darkness of the unknown we must believe that one of two things will happen. There will be something solid to stand on or we will be taught to fly.”
> 
> Did you know there’s a sequel to Humpty Dumpty?  
> I’m stunned.


	7. All is Not Lost (there is always more space in a human heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimpses into Gaius. It’s pretty typo riddled so I may go back and change it.

Gaius is a gentle soul, not a kind one.

He was kind, once. He used to leave sugar water out for the pixies. At nine years old he kept a kitten from drowning. At ten he kept a future king company. At eleven he kept a secret. At twelve he kept a secret. At fifteen, at twenty, at forty five, he kept a secret. 

There wasn’t space for much else, after that.

At sixty four he sits at his work table and thinks that adding a single secret will make him burst.  
There are screams echoing in his ears, and a sudden crackle from the fire makes him jump.

The ghosts of his past are catching up to him. 

He looks at the letter in his hand, sets it aside. It is from the lover of a man he betrayed, and he has just met a boy carrying the man’s eyes in his head. Opening it is a promise he is not sure he wants to keep. The boy in the next room could burn the world by accident, if what he says is true, or is a liar if it isn’t. 

Being near him makes all that was once magic in him sing, but Gaius is holding out hope for the latter. It would make things easier.

He sighs, lets the old ghosts weave their songs about him, wonders where this boy would be if Gaius were not a coward. He wonders where he would be himself.

There were mornings spent in the library once. Midnights dancing with the fae. There were burnt off eyebrows and an all encompassing need for discovery and the feeling of the world being built around them, by them. There was magic, once, and Gaius feels like the only person who remembers. Sometimes he doesn’t remember at all. 

The world could have been better, if he were braver.

Gaius sighs. He isn’t, and now is not the time for regrets. He cannot protect the boy, but he can do this. He can stay quiet, he can do nothing, he can sit quietly and close shutters and dream up believable lies.

He wonders if the secrets will rise up and choke him.  
He thinks he may deserve it.

He opens the letter. 

Hunith calls him “friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midterms (triterms? The numbers of exams we have in a quarter is obscene) have chewed me up and spat me out but I return triumphant. Semitriumphant. Triumphant in the arenas of linear algebra and organic chemistry, and not at all in the world of electromagnetism. The point, however, is that I remain alive and well, for certain definitions of well, and will continue posting now that the destruction of my future is not imminent. My apologies for the excessive scene setting and lack of action, I really don’t k ow how to fix that, but will endeavor to find a cure or a plan shortly.


	8. What You Egg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin thanks his lucky stars he is not a damsel in distress.

Not two days later, Gaius is in deeper than he ever thought he would be. 

 

He is watching Merlin out of the corners of his eyes, and sincerely reconsidering his life choices.

 

The air around him is crackling, and despite the food in his hair, Merlin is making short and impossibly thin look almost dangerous.

 

“There is,” Merlin says, voice tight, “a bully among the nobles.”

This isn’t strictly true. There are many bullies among the nobles, but Merlin is seething at one in particular.

 

He has just met a blonde haired, blue eyed prince—a regular cliche Prince Charming—and found he is not charming at all.

 

Gaius makes a sound from the back of his throat, and sets a bowl of stew before his seething ward.

Merlin sees this as encouragement to continue.

 

“He was—”

 

Will is the social reformer of Ealdor Village. This doesn’t mean much in a place so isolated, but it does mean that Merlin, as his best friend, knows an awful lot about the Scourge Nobles Are On This Land. He didn’t realize any of it had sunk in, because he has always been more worried about the nobility taking a weight _off_ his shoulders than adding one, but apparently it did, because he is furious.

 

“—throwing knives at a servant!”

 

Merlin lets his spoon clatter in his bowl, and stands to pace. A bit of zucchini hits Gaius in the face. 

 

“Has nobody ever told the man about power differentials?”

 

This is a phrase Will uses often. It is part of his talk on the duties of a liege lord to his vassals, and intimately tied to the circumstances of his father’s death.

 

“Noblesse oblige? He has a responsibility. He has had this world handed to him, he’ll never be—”

 

“Merlin!” Gaius stops him before he can say something even more impolitic.

 

“Tell me what happened.”

 

“Well, it began in the city.”

 

———

 

Merlin realizes his hatred for bullies exactly seven second too late to stop himself.

 

There is a man throwing knives and laughing, and a weedy boy in palace livery stumbling over himself to get away. Merlin fancies he can see the whites of his eyes from twenty paces away.

That thought takes three seconds. The rest of the time is spent on self recrimination. Merlin is painfully aware how monumentally stupid he is being.

He opens his mouth regardless.

 

“You’ve had your fun, my friend.”

 

The man looks shocked at his censure, which is fair. Merlin is shocked at his censure too. Impulse control has never been his forte, but really, decapitation should be more of a deterrence.

 

“Do I know you? Only you called me friend.”

 

The man’s small smile reveals perfect teeth. It is just threatening enough to keep Merlin from screaming about asking for things from people who cannot refuse. It is not, however, enough to keep him polite.

 

“Yes, that was my mistake.”

 

“I think it was.”

 

“I’d never have a friend who could be such an arse.”

 

The smile grows, briefly, before turning into a snarl.

 

Merlin’s grin turns challenging, and they exchange taunts. His promises echo in his ears “ _be careful, be secret, be quiet and_ _meek_ ,” until, quite suddenly, they don’t. He loses his temper.

 

He swings a fist.

 

———

 

“And that, Gaius, is the story of how I, evil sorcerer extraordinaire, bloodied the nose of Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

 

Merlin finishes his tale with a flourish, and turns toward Gaius, who looks to be caught between laughter and horror. 

 

“I really shouldn’t have gotten you out of the dungeon.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is unequivocally the single best out of context Shakespeare quote. Hilarious, but really macabre in context. Which is, I suppose, rather the point. And the case for literally all of Macbeth.


	9. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birds and squires of Camelot get a workout. Will nearly bites his tongue off in an effort to write a legible letter, Merlin gives sloppy coding try, and it’s a really good thing they’ve been friends this long.

Friend,

My dear Gaius, I turn to you for I feel lost and alone and don't know who to trust. It is every mother's fate to think her child is special, and yet I would give my life that Merlin were not so. Ours is a small village and he is so clearly at odds with people here that, if he were to remain, I fear what would become of him. He needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide, someone that might help him find a purpose for his gifts. I beg you, if you understand a mother's love for her son, keep him safe, and may God save you both.

Hunith

———

Dear Will,

Hello you bastard. I didn’t die in my way to Camelot, but you can hold out hope. My feet may yet kill me, and decapitation is in, at the moment. Remember that thing we talked about in Gregar’s field before I left? Well, the prkos may yet find company. Think the Sherwood stories, but a mite more dangerous than either of us believed. On a totally unrelated note, remember the Scarlet Pimpernel plan? Only, there is a precedent for following pipe dreams. Anyways, fairy tales aside, do tell me how things are in town. How is my mother? Has it rained a lot? Do keep in touch.

Stay safe,

Ember

———

To the esteemed Sir Gutherey,

Enclosed is an order for the arrest of the mother of one Thomas Collins, traitor to the crown.

By order of: His Most Royal Majesty King Uther Pendragon of Camelot

Scribe: Nicholas Ferris

———

Dear _Ember_ ,

Ember? Really? Is that _actually_ the best you can do? I know the tree woman called you something similar, but it is a bit on the nose, isn’t it? I mean, of all the maudlin fucking things. Moving on, _Ember_ dear, I’d like to remind you that you are the literal bastard here. And let you know that I am both ecstatic and stunned that you survived your journey. Anyways, the intended recipients got your messages. You know I’d do anything for you. Your mum is perfectly well, and no farms have burned down in recent days. We are having a bit of a dry spell, so we shall see how long that holds. Expect company to follow your raven.

Be careful,

A stupid code name

(Do you prefer Wallace, Guideo, or Spartacus? If we are to do this, may as well do it right.)

———

Daisy,

Spartacus is a bit obvious, don’t you think? You are aware that the gentry is generally literate? Anyways, when should I expect you?

Ember

———

Ember,

Remember that time you went moon mad? Well, I’m never going to miss it again.

Stay outdoors,

SPARTACUS

———

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huniths Letter is directly quoted from an online transcript of the Merlin show so cred to that.   
> The lovely PeaceHeather has bought to my attention that the coding makes no sense, so an explanation: it’s basically a disjointed medley of fairy tale and literary references.  
> -Merlin and Will had some undisclosed conversation about fixing something.  
> -prkos are a type of flower, and the word means defiance/spite.   
> -Sherwood as in robin hood and the merry men and all those stories entail  
> -totally unrelated is sarcastic  
> -the Scarlet pimpernel is a play about a pretend ditz who saves the French aristocracy from decapitation post revolution. I haven’t seen it, but if someone has, do tell me how it is. There is a book version.  
> -there is a precedent for following pipers, as in pied, and pipe dreams is a phrase I always associated with that, though I don’t believe that’s the intention.  
> -Ember is morbid because Merlin is joking about getting burned.  
> -it’s also close to emrys  
> -will is exasperated and loyal and on his way.  
> -Spartacus is the quintessential revolutionary, so it’s a bit obvious. Wallace’s first name is William. He and guy fawkes aka guideo fawkes showed up on a wikipedia search for revolutionaries. If someone could explain guy fawkes beyond “failed arsonist with a holiday” and that one movie where the guy wears a mask and tortures a woman (V for Vendetta) I’d be grateful because it seems like a cool story but my focus is all over the place.  
> -Moon mad is kind of a reference to all of the fairy stories of Northern Europe. Seelie courts and the really interesting Irish ones. I’m picturing Merlin going giddy and dancing under the moon. Fairy circles and all that. Will thinks it’s hilarious and is slightly concerned, so he’s hoping to show for that.


	10. For a Lark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin takes a stab at a peaceful life. It’s... almost enjoyable. Literally no plot.

That night, Merlin wakes to the echo of his name behind his eyes. His room is empty, and Gaius’ deep snores fill the next room. Wrapping a blanket about his shoulders, he looks around. The voice is already fading. Merlin takes a deep breath, and another, and another, until the air no longer catches in his throat. 

He very firmly ignores the thought that he is going mad. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he counts the stars outside his window until the shaking abates, and doesn’t notice falling asleep.

When Merlin wakes, he convinces himself it was a dream.

———

The morning brings the now-usual bustle of activity. Gaius seems convinced that errands are the best way to keep him out of trouble, and Merlin can’t say he disagrees. Keeping his head down is certainly easier when it’s bent to some task or another.

Gaius is delighted when he learns Merlin is literate, and he sets him to neatly copying out medical procedures almost immediately. Merlin sips tea and pockets half of his breakfast and learns about infection, and fever, and using boiled water to clean wounds.

When his handwriting starts to get sloppy and careless, Gaius him sends to the forest.  
There, he begs seventeen sprigs of willow off a tree, discretely feeds magic into some unplucked clover, spins three times on the spot and blows the seeds off a dandelion. He does not whisper a wish, but he does breathe a thank you, and it is enough.

He returns feeling lighter than he has in a week, and whispers good wishes into a a cure for nightmares, ignoring Gaius’s disapproving glance.

The days fall into a rhythm. Merlin wakes to the sound of his name fading to nothing, breakfasts with Gaius, learns about the heart, the humors, the best way to treat a broken bone. Gaius’s scrolls are rewritten, recategorized, and relocated according to present legality. When he feels his eyes may bleed ink, Gaius sends him to the forest or outer city for supplies. In the forest, Merlin can preform his small magics with less fear than usual. In the city, he falls irrevocably in love. 

The building are taller than any he has seem, the colors somehow brighter. Merlin couldn’t live without the forest—magic cares for that which is hers, and Merlin is hers in the way that every person in the world is their own—but the city is something new.

Merlin pays double the going rate for every pound of grain until somebody teaches him to barter. There are a number of people eager to meet the sharp tongued- wide eyed country bumpkin, whose kindnesses seem so oddly far reaching. 

He befriends a girl he met during his time in the stocks. Her name is Gwen, but he thought it was Wren at first, and sought her out because of that. Bird names have to stick together. They meet every afternoon, to do the shopping or simply walk the town, meet a group of traders from the Far South, and a peddler who has been traveling all month, and a wordsmith looking for black curtains. The traders give Merlin significant looks and quiet escape offers until they see the way he grins at the sky here. After that, they tell them the stories of the stars and tales of lands where gods walk the earth and scientist sing their accomplishments and paintings are always completed out in the sun. Merlin and Gwen help with loading and unloading, leaving a dusting of luck in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever so sorry I’ve not edited this and I couldn’t think of anything to write so there’s that. I’m afraid exams have been taking over my life, and probably will continue to do so for the next forever. Um... I don’t know how to write plot so there’s something to be aware of.  
> Anyways all the best to you all!


	11. Man of the Mancha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the first impression doesn’t go well.... ruin the second?

Perhaps it is the loss of those tiny shavings of luck that does it. Perhaps it is that Merlin never learned to keep his mouth shut.

———

Arthur doesn’t often wander into the town center. It throws people off—and he would never admit it aloud, but it throws him off, too. It’s very loud, compared to the palace’s usual efficient buzz. He is used to rooms going deferentially silent when he enters. It’s not that—he doesn’t expect it here, he knows people have lives to live—it’s just shocking. Nonetheless, when morning drills are over and the lads propose heading to town, he agrees.

The—everything—of it has him on edge. Half an hour of jostling and shouting sharpen his discomfort into nastiness. It takes all of his impulse control and half of his will to keep from snarling when a woman carrying a basket on her head swerves to avoid colliding into him. The basket rocks dangerously, and Arthur turns away, scanning the crowd. He wants to hit something.

The skinny, defiant boy—Sparrow maybe? Crow?—from the training yard catches his eye.

It must be mentioned now that Prince Arthur of Camelot is not by nature a nasty person. He is thoughtless, self centered, protective, and brave. He is not prone to fits of rumination, but if he was, he would not see any problem with his behavior. Inalienable human rights are not even a thought on the horizon, in this land. Here, respect is owed only to the very lucky few—the strong, the wealthy, the noble. It is given, not earned. Arthur has not yet worked out that these things have nothing to do with deserving.

So, when Arthur, itching for a distraction, sneers an insult at a boy he’s taught a lesson to once before, he expects agreement and amusing bobbing and something like fear.

“How’s your knee-walking coming along?”

He certainly never considered he would _walk away_.

“Aw, don’t run away!” Arthur is surprised and outraged, but the shout comes out almost good natured.

The boy stiffens. His shoulders twitch, and he stops, not turning.

“From you?”

Arthur can’t help but be relieved. It’s an odd thing to be anxious over, the regard of a badly dressed boy he’s met once before, but he really needs to let off steam, and this seems to be a good way to do it.

“Look, I told you you were an ass,” the boy says, turning, “I just didn’t realize you were a royal one.”

Arthur will forever deny that the gasp came from him. He isn’t sure how to deal with this, and the boy is still talking.

“Oh, what are you going to do? Get your daddy's men to protect you?”

This time, there’s no denying the choking is his. He gives a slight smile, bright and polite and dangerous. Morgana had him practice it when he was ten and learning about diplomacy. At Arthur’s terse nod a grimacing Owain tosses the peasant a mace. He drops it. Through his confused indignation Arthur feels the stirrings of pity—the boy looks like he might struggle to win a fight with a wet blanket.

“I’ve been trained to kill since birth.” It is part boast, part warning. The boy seems unfamiliar with the tradition of yelling taunts, because he cocks his head.

“And how long have you been training to be a prat?” He has an air of studious concern.

Arthur wonders, a bit wildly, if he’s dreaming, but he has never been very imaginative, and a peasant attempting suicide by snark doesn’t seem like something he could think up. Of course, it doesn’t seem like something that could happen either.

“You can’t address me like that.” Maybe the boy is just really, _really_ dense.

“My apologies. How long have you been training to be a prat,” he gives a sweeping bow, “my lord?”

It is too much. Arthur swings at him, reverse crescent moon, relishing in the flash of fear his movements elicit. It’s a cruel thing to do, but Arthur hasn’t learned much kindness, and sometimes kindness is a thing you have to learn.

The streets are not wide, and the boy knows them better. He isn’t bothering with his mace, just dashing between stalls and away from people—Arthur keeps swinging, stalking toward him. The terrain is unfamiliar, but Arthur’s tactics tutor despaired of teaching him to understand collateral damage. He ignores what he cannot evade.

There is a crash as a pyramid of vegetables goes rolling to the ground. Markets are not built to withstand impromptu duels—which may be the insolent peasant’s saving grace.

The boy is dodging badly. His movements are quick but very imprecise; he looks like he is going to fall over four times in the first fifteen seconds, and the mace looks more out of place in his hands than it would in a wedding bouquet. Arthur swings again, the moments easy, familiar. He is grace and danger wrapped in gold, and the world around him seems to recognize that. The busy street is almost eerily silent, except for the sound of cracking wood and the squelch of crushed tomatoes. Losing himself to the movement, Arthur goes in for the kill.

His mace doesn’t.

Arthur feels inordinately betrayed for a moment. It’s not that he wants to kill—he is administering a beating, not an execution—he doesn’t kill people on a whim because the sky feels too close. It’s just—he knows he made the right motions—he lives this, breathes this. When he has nothing else, when it takes him hours to get through a letter or an arithmetic exercise, when his tutors look quietly scornful or horribly patient, he has this. And now, the natural ease is somehow not.

Suddenly, as most things are in a fight, everything is going wrong. Arthur, always athletic and light on his feet, stumbles, once, twice, three times. His mace tangles with the ceiling and a nearby table and the air itself, and the peasant isn’t even looking him in the eyes. For a moment Arthur thinks he sees a flash of gold, remembers a lecture in the dangers of unnatural luck—but the thought slips away.   
  
He falls. A mace comes at him with unpracticed clumsiness, and a voice breaks through his shock.

“Do you give up? Do you?”

The insinuation that he would ever surrender to a _pauper_ —and, deeper, more true, that he would ever surrender at all—clears his mind. He notes the hesitation, the slightly shaking hands, the eyes, defiant and stubbornly fixed on his. It will be a small matter to turn the tables.

The peasant is gripping the mace so badly it’s a wonder he can hold it up. He looks sick for a moment, and turns away. It is enough. Arthur sweeps his leg around the boy’s ankles, uses the movement to roll, catlike, onto his toes. Grasping a broom, because his mace is lost somewhere in the market’s dusty streets, he brushes dirt into the peasant’s face. He carefully does not think that he has knighted nobles with less courage than this.

The final test for becoming a knight is lasting sixty seconds in combat with him.

Arthur shakes the odd thought out of his head. Knighthood requires a certain nobility of spirit, one his father and every book he’s ever read assure him exists only in noble blood. Still, when when Owain and Gareth move to lead the boy-man to the palace, he stops them.

“He may be a fool, but he’s a brave one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all the dialogue is directly quoted from the show—or rather from a transcript of the first episode. My apologies, this whole exhibition thing is terribly boring, but I really can’t seem to get longer chapters together, ever. Is there anything anyone would like to see?   
> Updates should be a tad more frequent—I had exams, but I don’t have any more until finals the week after next! It’s all rather oddly freeing. I’m not sure what to do with myself. 
> 
> Man of the mancha is a modern and English adaptation of Don Quixote de La Mancha—it’s a play, and probably the best I’ve seen.


	12. A Wyrm at the Heart of the Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The “wise old man” archetype gains scales and an extra heart, Merlin takes a walk in the dark and runs into his destiny.

Merlin walks down a dark hallway, following the melodic chanting. It sounds like his name, but it can’t be, because no one knows him here. The hallway is empty, and he should be cold. He turns a corner, stops.

There is a man cackling madly, tears running down his face.

“All your fault, all your fault, you’re a monster, everything is all your fault!”

Merlin is feels a cold rush of clarity run down his spine. This man is Thomas James Collins, and he should be dead.

Instead, he is laughing and crying and lunging toward Merlin—and Merlin wants nothing more than to run away, but this man is less dead than he thought and he could have, should have done something to save him, so he steps forward.

The chanting is getting louder. He ignores it.

“You let them kill me!”

Suddenly, there is an axe, and Thomas’ head is rolling and there is blood everywhere and where it touches Merlin it burns—

He wakes.

The chanting doesn’t stop.

Merlin sits, bites his lip, hugs his knees to his chest. They’re pressing into the bruises from this afternoon’s idiocy but for the moment Merlin cannot bring himself to care. There is a voice saying his name over and over again and he is terrified. His dreams have never come true before, but it doesn’t seem outside of the realm of possibility, considering what he—who he is. He’s a who. A person. He isn’t a monster.

He isn’t.

He isn’t a monster, but he owes the world something. There is gold in his veins and a voice calling for him and he doesn’t want to be the type of person who will ignore a cry for help. Not anymore.

So, he won’t be.

Merlin uncurls, letting the tension flow from his chest, to his shoulders, to his wrists, seep from his fingers in effortless rivulets of gold. They would look like dust motes, swirling and forgotten, if dust motes gave off their own light.

He walks down the dark hallway, following the melodic chanting.

He turns a corner, stops.

There is a man—

 

————

 

Wesley of the Windersome Wilds has been a guard for six years. The anniversary went unnoted, because Wesley is a man easily forgotten, but his promotion to the interior of the palace was recent enough that he is considering it a congratulations gift. He sips his drink and leans back, content.

A shadow slips behind him, into the darkness.

 

———

  
The corridor ends suddenly in a cliff and Merlin jerks to a stop, gazing, slack-jawed, at the cave which is _most certainly_ too large to fit under the palace. The voice calling his name has faded, but he doesn’t notice, because it has been replaced by the rumble of thunder, of wind, of—a massive dragon flying toward a young man who might yet be kin. Merlin’s mouth clicks shut.

Merlin jerks backward, magic swirling beneath his skin. The dragon (dragon!) is massive and spectacular and terrifying. Beams of light scatter off iridescent scales, and there is something warm in the air, like magic, or peace. The dragon leans toward the boy, the magic—and Merlin hears the clinking of chains. There are manacles welded around sinewy forearms, the bare skin below them pink. _Nothing stronger than dragon scales..._ He feels sick to his stomach.

He squares his shoulders, and meets the dragon’s golden eyes.

“Young warlock.” The dragon’s voice crackles, like sparks on ancient, ageless stone.

Merlin gives a soft gasp, matching the voice to the one in his dreams. “You called?”

“For days.”

That hits him like a punch to the gut. He swallows, lifts his chin. “Who are you?”

“I am Kilgharrah!”

Merlin mouths the name to himself. “It’s a pleasure, I’m sure. You already know my name, I suppose. Do the people of Camelot...” he trails off, feeling immeasurably awkward. The manacles shift again, and he feels a fire light in his chest.

There is a sound like mountains crumbling, and the dragon’s breaths come slightly sharper. He is laughing. “Know their tithes are being used to keep me in chains? I can’t say I care. I am in chains.” Merlin thinks of men in red cloaks, and old women smiling, and a cellar, deep and achingly lonely. He can see that.

“Did you call me to...help? I don’t know how to free you. You probably know more than I, and you’re certainly...” magic enough to do it. He trails off before he reaches the forbidden word, and stares at Kilgharrah. It’s difficult to tell, but he thinks this expression might be longing.

“Not yet. You need a... guide, for lack of a better word, and there is none better than I. I am the great dragon, and last of my kind. I have called to speak with you of destiny. You were given your gifts for a reason.”

Perhaps it is the magic, lying thick and sweet in the air. Perhaps it is his nightmares, coming back to haunt him, or the fact that walking down to this cave was the bravest thing he ever did, except for except for getting up everyday in a world that would kill him. Perhaps it is that Merlin looked at a dragon and thought _brother_ before he thought monster or anything else.

Whatever the reason, his eyes are clear, and to his own surprise he responds, “I know. I am going to save people.” It feels like a promise. It feels too big. He opens his mouth to take it back.

The dragon blinks. “How do you plan to do that, young warlock?”

“I—er—I don’t know why I said that. It’s ridiculous. Nobody even needs saving, except for maybe you, obviously, and it’d be impossible to change, besides.”

“It is not. You have a great destiny. You and the once and future king—“

“The what?”

“Once and future king. He is a... consideration... in your destiny.”

“Consideration? What destiny?”

“I believe the words ‘other half’ have been used. It has been foretold. The once and future king will unite the land of Albion and bring magic back to Camelot, with you at his side.”

“Once and future... me? Look, Kilgharrah, sir, I don’t think this once and future king exists, and if he does, there’s never been a noble who’ll take anyone as his equal. Especially not me. I’m common as _mud_ , and proud of it! A kingdom with...you know... sounds like the best thing in the world, but it’s the king’s fault there isn’t any in the first place!” Merlin’s voice echoes through the chamber, and he rocks back on his heels, surprised at his own nerve.

“I believe you have met Prince Arthur. He is a chance.”

“A chance? He is a bully! And an idiot! He doesn’t think twice about hurting people—he likes hurting people! And you expect him to—what? Protect and defend?”

“The king is not named. If not Arthur, then there will be another, and another, and another, young warlock. But until one reaches your _standards_ your people will continue to die for their magic. Arthur is a chance, and this is destiny. It will happen. You cannot change it.”

Merlin’s shoulders slump. “Is it so set in stone?” How heavy, how hopeless, to never have a choice at all. Is this true of only the prophecy bound, or is every soul scripted, every act prewritten? Is kindness and creativity and choice a lie?

The dragon looks puzzled. “Most likely; it was a rather well known set of prophecies. Though if you want to read it, books may be more convenient. I know Uther hoped to be the king, once.”

“That’s not what I—really? I’ll try to sneak a copy, then. I meant... is it so immutable? Have I no choice?”

In another world, the dragon would look at this brave boy, this terrified, defiant man, and tell him there was never any choice. In this world, the bright threads of fate are already crossing. Kilgharrah gazes at a boy who thoughtlessly promised to save people, and sighs.

“For you, Merlin, I think the stars might change things.”

And then, in a rush of wind and clanking chains, he departs.

Merlin is left staring at the too large darkness. Letting the witchlight blink out, he steps quietly back to his rooms.

 

————

 

When Gaius wakes, it is to his charge’s near hysterical laughter. Merlin’s laugh has a braying quality, like a donkey was crossed with a sparrow, or trying to eat one, and it takes him a moment to understand the words.

“A wyrm! A literal wyrm at the heart of the castle!”

He finishes the saying in his mind. _That is why it will not stand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “there is a wyrm at the heart of the castle, that is why it will not stand” is a misquote from Niel (or Neil?) Gaiman’s “Instructions” which is a truly truly wonderful poem. It really reminds me of the books-I forget the names, but they were pretty short, and were modified fairy tales? Like one was Raphael but her name was parsley or something and her smile was green and she turned into a frog and she an the third son of a king had fallen in love before? Or in one sleeping beauty was really really clever and our Prince Charming didn’t find her to marry her but to ask for her advice on an issue plaguing his kingdom? Or like anyways there were many more does anyone remember those?


	13. Interlude: We are of one blood, you and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragon are social creatures and thanks to our dear tyrant king Camelot’s heart is the ninth most magical place in the world.

Merlin has spent most of his life convinced he was a monster. Ealdor’s people didn’t hate him, but the campaign against sorcery was born several years before him, and they didn’t love him either. You don’t have to love something to keep it safe, and that goes triple for children.  _If you see a child making light..._  Wonderful as it is, to have five whole books in a village, it isn’t enough to combat years of vitriol, not when the vitrol’s target is odd and underfed and too strong for anybody’s good. Not when the vitrol’s target is yourself.

Now, though, Merlin has Kilgharrah.

Everything is easier, with somebody magic, _someone like him_ to see and to talk to and—Kilgharrah may be a literal monster, but Merlin can’t bring himself to think of him as one, so it helps. _Magic does not corrupt._  It is a new thought, that he might not be rotting inside himself. Kilgharrah smells of sulfur and brimstone, not sickly sweet fruit and rotting flesh.

He still wakes to dreams of heads rolling, but now there is somebody just as magic as him saying that _together they will make things better_ and _it wasn’t his fault_. When he wakes, Merlin ghosts down to the castle’s heart, slightly transparent and too loud by half. Kilgharrah greets him eagerly every time, half reverent and half condescending, desperately bored and desperately lonely. They talk for hours.

There was magic, once, in more places than Camelot’s deeply buried heart. There is magic now, but there were dragons, once, and elves and sidhe and humans, and magic could be learned, just like anything else. The dragon builds a world of spun gold and fallen stars, who would stay on earth in exchange for a heart.

It makes Merlin ache, that he’s  never known this.

It makes Merlin desperately grateful that he’s never lost it.

The dragon has, and he is bitter—horribly, painfully bitter, in love with an impossible past, one that’s been gone for years and only barely worth fighting for besides (magic is not kind, any more than the wind or the sea or the sand are. People are not kinder with it—they are only as kind as themselves)—but so is Merlin, he’s discovering. Merlin doesn’t know what he’s lost or what could be, yet, but he knows _it isn’t fair_ that he cannot even say the word magic, that he flinches every time Kilgharrah does, that he’s been terrified his whole life.

 

He doesn’t know what to do with the feeling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Lo all. I’ve tons of school so my apologies!! I figured I’d post this short blurb and see if any inspiration strikes!


	14. The Death of the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin’s first real party is turns out like something out of a frat themed horror movie.

In the world outside Camelot’s locked heart, life goes on. Merlin sneaks into the library, once, to read forbidden books. Gaius tucks the tomes behind the wall paneling to hide them, and tells Merlin it’s all ancient history. Forgetting is the only way to survive, especially for a being of magic. King Uther is throwing a ball to celebrate killing people like him—and magic isn’t a difficult charge to pin on somebody. One bitter comment too many, and Merlín is dead. 

So, Merlin keeps his head down. He holds a death grip on his magic, learns to make honey tonics, and doesn’t ever pick up the books he can read without learning the language. And, most importantly, he keeps far, far away from the royal family. 

Or he would, if anything in his life ever went to plan. 

—————

The day of the the party, Gwen rushes through getting Morgana dressed, grabs an armful of too-fancy clothing, and races to Gaius’s chambers. She walks in to a cloud of blue smoke, a coughing Merlín, and thirty drops of a newly created wound cleaner. With a small shriek, she shields Morgana’s white shirt from the color.

“What are—never mind. Merlin, come with me. We’re going dancing.”

Merlín’s eyebrows hit his hairline. He stares at her, then pointedly looks down at his mud caked boots and obviously mended trousers. 

“Are you my fairy godmother, then? Do you have any glass slippers to spare?”

Gwen looks scandalized, before she grins. “Better. I have the whole damn look.”

—————

Merlin and Gwen burst in to the ball late, but nobody notices. Everybody is whirling in some complicated local dance, and the music echoes against the tall ceilings. Merlin feels out of place in the too-large, too-fine silken blouse and unripped leggings, but Gwen has rarely looked so at home as she does in the King’s ward’s ill fitting castoffs. 

It’s like she belongs here. 

Gwen affects an exaggerated noble accent, holding out her arm. “Sir Merlin?”  
He sweeps a bow and takes it, staring into her eyes and not at the bard, who has just begun the ballad of brave King Uther’s fight against the Great Dragon.   
Gwen stares at him, a bit, then leans close. “Do you think brave king uther noticed that that this is just the ballad of St. George, modified?”  
A choking laugh makes its way up his throat. “My lady,” he says, bowing once more. “Would you care to dance?”

—————

The dancing lasts hours, and Merlin and Gwen spend them cackling at each other’s increasingly scathing and crude commentary. It is Merlin’s first night off since coming to Camelot, and he’s glad he spent it here. The plan is to close the ball to the commoners with Lady Helen’s aria, and Merlin leans sleepily against a pillar, eager for the performance to begin. 

When it does, Merlin is captivated.

Lady Helen’s voice is beautiful.   
It isn’t that, though. Or it is, but it’s more. When she sings, the world sings too. It feels like he imagines Killgharah would, if he didn’t live in iron chains under a city of heavy stone. The palace hall is awash with a soft blue glow, and it feels like midnight under the moon. Merlin has never witnessed anything so beautiful in his life. 

Lady Helen is beautiful too. As she sings, and sparkling silver cobwebs wrap up the rafters, her face seems to get older, more lined. Her voice cracks once, twice—she is a wife, a widow, mother mourning her son—steadies, in a high note that makes Merlin’s heart race. Grey bleeds into bright chestnut hair, the rich gown hangs loose across thin shoulders—the song’s bright truth changes her into someone more herself, and with every second she is more beautiful, more wise, more brave.   
Merlin steps toward her, some word on his tongue—teach me, or please, or stop, or—and the woman who cannot be lady Helen stops singing to give a gasping, choking sob. “My son,” she whispers, voice full of pain. And then again, angrier. “My son!” 

Tears run freely down her cheeks, and her voice gets deeper, sharper, heavier. The smell of ancient magics fills the air, and Merlin doesn’t know how he recognizes it, but he does, and somehow he understands her words as she begins to chant in the language of the witches and fair folk and gods of old. She cannot lie in this tongue, he knows instinctively, and tears drip down his own face as her song turns into a raw call of pain, for pain and blood and justice, and all those things magic had been denied. 

She pulls out a kitchen knife. The wooden handle, smooth with use, sparks in her hand as she murmurs slow, threatening. “An eye for an eye, a heart for a heart, a soul for a soul, a life for a life!”

 _Right the balance_ , Merlin almost murmurs, transfixed. _An eye for an eye, a heart for a heart, a soul for a soul, a life for a life. Let the killer be killed, let the magic run free, let us all be unbound, let_ —and Uther twitches. Merlin freezes in terror, because this man would kill him for thinking this.  
For a moment, there is nothing in him but paralyzing fear, and that is the moment when lady not-Helen turns sharply away from Uther, and toward Arthur Pendragon. 

“A son for a son!” She shrieks, and the whole world freezes. 

Merlin hesitates. Only for a moment, but he hesitates. He is only beginning to understand how much Uther has stolen from him, but he knows it is more than this. Surely Uther deserves to lose his nasty, bullying son. Surely he deserves to lose everything, starting with this. Suddenly, though, the memory of Killgharrah’s voice fills his mind. “A chance!” It barks, sharp and cutting. 

And Merlin looks at the prince, and sees a nasty, bullying man, who does not deserve to die. The king deserves to lose him but—time starts once more, and Merlin shoves Arthur from the knife’s path. 

 

Not-Helen shrieks and sobs, pulling out another knife. She throws again, reckless in her grief, and again, and again until Merlin panics, and the chandelier comes crashing down on this woman just like him. 

 

She is dead.


	15. A Haunting Deferred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin killed someone, and he really isn’t willing to gloss over it. Uther is, though, so high treason incarnate survives another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation between uther and Merlin (four to five lines) is transcribed from the show so all credit for that goes to them!

The sound of metal hitting stone, though no louder than not-Helen’s singing, seems to jerk the people from their stupors. Most people, at least. To Merlin, the sound is a death knell—the only one not-Helen will get, as a witch. He can’t stop staring at her body, and doesn’t even consider moving until his view is obstructed.

King Uther is standing over him.

The fear clears his head, somewhat, cutting through the guilt and disgust and pain of having hurt—killed—murdered this woman. Coming back to himself, he realizes he is still on one knee, with a hand on the prince’s shoulder. He scrambles to his feet.  
A hand shoves him back to his knees.

“Kneel,” someone hisses.

Merlin doesn’t recognize the voice, but he listens. It’s good advice. While he’d like to die on his feet it’s quite likely nobody even noticed the his magic, with everything else going on. It’s best not to look like a threat.

The feet before him shift. Merlin rounds his shoulders, bows his head, waits.

“You saved my boy's life. A debt must be repaid.” The king’s voice sounds strange, this close up. 

Merlin shakes his head slightly, shifting to catch sight of the dead woman’s face. 

The only debt owed is to her. 

“Sir...” 

Kind Uther’s voice gets ever so slightly sharper. “Don't be so modest. You shall be rewarded.”

Merlin’s throat is far too tight. He gulps, tries again. “No, honestly, you don't have to, Your Highness.”  
He never wants to think about this again.

King Uther, however, has the entire court watching him.  
“No, absolutely, he says. “This merits something quite special. You shall be rewarded a position in the royal household. You shall be Prince Arthur's manservant.”

Merlin is almost relieved, because that is no reward at all.

And Uther smiles, like he’s given the greatest gift in the world. 

 

—————

 

The feast ends abruptly, to the sound of loud cheering. The king made a speech—something about denying the witch—Mary, some court official called her—burial rites, seizing her estate—Merlin has some idea that it will go toward making a new chandelier, but everything is muddled through the haze of his guilt. He starts walking, thinking of home, and his feet lead him to a dragon’s lair. 

His feet echo in the familiar space. Merlin breathes deep, and something—more guilt, perhaps or fear—catches in his throat.

The cavern’s darkness is suddenly claustrophobic.  
Merlin’s grief overwhelms him.

“Kilgharrah!” He shouts. 

His knees crack against the cavern’s stone floor. 

“Kilgharrah...”

The dragon flies toward him, chains clanking. He stares at Merlin, then blinks, long and slow. 

“You smell of death, young warlock.”

“I killed her,” says Merlin, and the whole story comes tumbling out, leaving Merlin gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks. “What can I do? How do I—atone?”

Kilgharrah sighs, in a puff of sulfur and smoke, and sets his great chin on Merlin’s leg, touching him for the first time since they’ve met. 

“You protect. You defend. You do everything to keep it from happening again. And one day, you’ll free the magic. And it won’t.”

“How do you know I can do that? What if I can’t?”

“You can, young warlock. You can, because at our first meeting you would have set me free, and because hurting the witch almost broke you. You can, because it didn’t. You are magic,” he says, tone slightly worshipful, “and you are yourself, and you cannot be anything else. Of course you’ll free the magic, and protect, and defend. There was never any other option.”

Something in Merlin relaxes a little, and he sets his palm gently against Kilgharrah‘s snout. They sit for hours. Kilgharrah tells Merlin about the death rites of the Old Religion, and Merlin twists sparks of magic into the bright, shining image of Mary’s face. As Mary’s body is spit upon and dumped in the woods, two beings of magic hold vigil for her from a dark cave in Camelot’s heart. 

And all through the night, nobody says a word about destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all sorry this is short and thank you for your comments! Wish me luck and motivation on finals!  
> All of this is typed on my phone so let me know if this is too much of a mess to understand


	16. Into the belly of the beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No plot

Unfortunately for Merlin, destiny has quite a lot to say about him. Sunrise finds him nursing a cup of warm water and a burgeoning headache as Gaius paces before him.

“I can’t, Gaius.” Merlin has said this to Gaius six times since waking, and Gaius has ignored him every time. Hunching his shoulders, Merlin brings his face closer to the hot steam.

“I really can’t.”

Gaius let’s out an impatient breath. “You can’t not, boy. The king gave you this place personally. It’s an honor.”

“An honor? To work for that—prat?”

Gaius’s eyes flash. “That prat is your prince, and yes, it’s an honor, and a good job.”

“Actually,” says Merlin, suddenly scathing, “I‘m not from Camelot, so he isn’t really. And I already have a job.”

“You’re living here, and my apprentice. Which, by the way, is job training—I can’t pay you!”

“And? I’ve lived with nothing before. You can house me!”

“Not if the king tells me not to! I’m a—“

“So you want me to—what? Serve Prince Charming for the rest of my life? Visit Mary’s decaying body and thank her for the job?” Merlin’s aching grief changes suddenly to fury. Magic whirls about the room, almost visible, oppressive.

“I want you to keep your head down! Don’t insult the prince, obey a couple orders, stop talking treason under the king’s own roof—if it comes to it, I can’t protect you! And if it comes here, I won’t even be able to protect myself.”

Merlin stands, feeling old and impossibly scornful. “And that’s all that matters to you, isn’t it.”

“No it isn’t Merlin,” Gaius sighs. “Sit down. Of course it isn’t.”

Merlin stops and sighs, shoulders slumping. He whispers a bit of wind into the hot water, drains his cup, sits again. The air is still thick with magic, but it feels softer. “What, then?”

Gaius stays quiet for a long moment. “You, Merlin, and—others. Atonement. And—I can’t do anything but—you can’t say no. For me, for you... You can send the money home. It’ll help your mother.”

“It’ll—Gaius, it’ll kill me. He will kill me.” 

“He won’t.” Gaius sounds sure, and Merlin has to drag his magic beneath his skin to keep from hurting him. 

“Where have you been living? Gaius, I was almost killed as a toddler because that man decided I was evil. What do you think they’ll do to me now?”

“They won’t kill you.”

“How do you know?”

“Well Merlin,” Gaius says with a slight smile. “I don’t imagine you’d let them.”

Merlin looks at Gaius’s face, bright and shining with faith, and grimaces slightly. That isn’t how it works. But before he can tell him about pain and fear and living as magic there’s a knock on the door, and a tired voice calls his name.

“Merlin! I’m looking for a Merlin? Is that you? The prince requests your presence in his chambers, now.“

Merlin gives Gaius a panicked glance, reality crashing back into place. He has been arguing, but he can’t say no, because this was never a choice, really. It’s either servitude or banishment. And though he would rather take his chances in the woods than serve a man like that, he has plans with Gwen tomorrow, and he told Kilgharrah he’d see him tonight, and Camelot is the most grand city he’s ever seen.

It’s not fair.

Gaius claps his hands. 

“Better go, then. I’ll take care of the cough tincture. You can read the recipe when you get back.”

Straightening his spine, Merlin opens the door to an unfamiliar servant. 

“Where are the prince’s chambers, then?”

————

The servant—George—introduces himself with an apology for manhandling him the night before.   
Merlin won’t hear of it, and thanks him profusely for saving him from whatever the king does to disrespectful peasants. This prompts a flurry of advice. When he and George reach the prince’s chambers Merlin’s heart feels several stone lighter, and his mind is full of useful tips for dealing with nobility. He exercises the first immediately.

Three knocks, just loud enough to be heard.

“Enter.”

The voice is deeper than he remembers, and Merlin’s breath catches slightly. He is terrified.

George touches his shoulder, and something in Merlin hardens. He gives a tremulous smile.

Pushing the door open, he gives a short, sharp bow.

“Your highness,” he greets.

The door thumps closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pretend italics do exist this is more phone stuff because I apparently just jot things down in notes which is a pity since I had a couple full scenes written out and honestly this is probably so riddled with typos you need a key to figure it out. Anyways though enjoy and happy almost new year!


	17. Wash your hands of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin gets his marching orders. Sort of. Really he just gets a laundry list of chores, including laundry, and a newfound dislike for the aristocracy. What else is new?

Prince Arthur is lounging on a bright velvet settee, nearly glowing in the sunlight streaming through the wide windows.

“Merlin, is it?” His voice is less deep than it sounded from outside, but it’s lazy, and the splendid room more than makes up the lost intimidation. 

Merlin gives a short nod. “Yes, sir.”

“My new manservant.”

“So I’m told, sir.” 

Arthur leans forward. “Didn’t you once say you’d rather die than serve me?”

His tone is openly mocking, and Merlin detests him too much to ignore it. “Didn’t you once promise to kill me where I stood, lord prince?”

 

A laugh rings out, like sunlight, and Merlin is shocked to realize it’s the prince’s. It’s a bright, golden sort of laugh, and it makes Merlin hate him a little less. When Arthur speaks, though, he’s lazily dismissive and very slightly threatening.

“That I did, Merlin, that I did.”

Clenching his jaw, Merlin forces his suddenly dry throat to swallow.  
Bow, he thinks, in a voice very like George’s. Bow, and agree if you can bear to, and if you don’t want to be hurt.

Merlin bows. “Sir,” he says, hoping it sounds like submission. 

Prince Arthur pulls himself to his feet. He stalks toward Merlin, whose muscles tense, even though Arthur isn’t looking at him.

“You’re brave, I’ll give you that.”

Merlin, who is almost hyperventilating, stifles an incredulous look. “Your highness flatters me,” he says, twisting to keep the prince in his sight. 

Arthur makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Perhaps I do. Do you have any other skills? Can you fight? Clean armor? Sew?” He doesn’t sound like he cares much. Merlin edges slightly closer to the door. 

“I have the usual skills, sir. Basic cooking, cleaning. The things you need to run a house. I can read a bit. Figures, some writing. A bit of healing. I can’t fight much sir. I’ve never cleaned armor.”   
His credentials all come out in a terrified breath, and even though Merlin knows he hasn’t given himself away he runs back through the words twice, when he’s done. The prince doesn’t seem to notice.

“That’s fine,” he says. “You’ll learn.”

Merlin gives a sharp nod. “Yes, sir.”

The prince’s eyes snap toward him, scrutinizing Merlin for the first time. Merlin takes a deep breath, and does not squirm under his gaze. He looks him directly in the eyes. Abruptly, Prince Arthur turns away. 

“Lunch! I’ll usually have you bring it earlier,” he says. “The kitchens know how I take it. And I’ll have a bath after—you can draw it up now, and while I soak you can read me my reports, and lay my clothes out. I’ll write up a list for you. The stables need mucking, of course, and my weapons haven’t been polished since last week...”

The prince rummages through his desk, still spouting a list of duties. Merlin’s eyes grow ever wider. Heated water? Help dressing? Horses? Merlin wouldn’t know what to do with a horse if you paid him! Which is, he supposes, what is happening here.

A loud thud shales him from his ruminations. Prince Arthur is staring at him expectantly. 

Merlin stares back. “Your pardon, sir?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Granted,” he says, with a put upon sigh. “I said, the maid—the blonde one, with the hat—usually draws my baths. Ask her about the buckets.”

The hat? Merlin nods. “Yes sir.”

The prince gives another put upon sigh, then flaps a hand at Merlin. “Go on, then. Don’t take long. Dismissed.”

Merlin is nearly at the door anyways. “Of course your highness. Thank you.” He backs up a single step, and he is out. The door shuts softly behind him.

Merlin walks away from it, as fast as he can. 

——————

The maid, whose name is Sarah, walks him through drawing a bath for a royal. Merlin doesn’t have much experience, but it must be very different from drawing a bath for anyone else, because step five involves enough firewood to heat his home in Ealdor for two nights.

Merlin doesn’t say anything, but Sarah seems to read the thought on his face. She gives an airy laugh. 

“You’re not city folk, are you?”

“How did you know?”

Another soft laugh.

“Here we love our royals. Divine right to rule, and everything.”

“How does that work? Back home the story is that Camelot decided the gods were too magic, and destroyed their own and everybody else’s.”

A sniff. “They left some, and they’re enough for this. The royals are blessed, or they wouldn’t be born in that position. And the walls have ears.”

It’s Merlin’s turn to snort in amusement. “Thought that sort of thing was illegal.”

“Nothing’s illegal for the king.”

They’re both silent for steps six through nine. When Merlin returns to Prince Arthur’s chambers he takes the list of chores with a smile, and he doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the day.

——————

That night Merlin wakes from yet another dream of Mary’s broken body, and doesn’t go back to sleep. 

He vomits until he’s shaking and all that comes up is bitter bile, and spends the hours til dawn weaving whispered pleas for silence into the walls.

By the time he’s finished the room is so steeped in magic the air feels heavy, but it won’t let a sound out, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The destroy their gods and everyone else’s is misquoted from some Harry Potter fanfic. Sorry for the delay! I’m afraid my work ethic hasn’t improved, so there’ll be more. Please point out typos if you see them!


	18. Obituary

Mary Collins died on the anniversary of the Great Dragon’s Capture, after performing magic in the king’s own hall. The king’s men pillaged and sold her possessions—and returned them to the palace coffers. They would be sold to replace the chandelier that killed her. 

Her body was spit on and left in the woods to be forgotten, and her family was forbidden from speaking her name. 

The Great Dragon lit a pyre in her honor. Her killer would mourn her for years, and never forget her face.


End file.
